“Well, the hermit was sitting cross-legged on the balcony, and more than a score alighted near him, to eat the bread from the soft food from the plates. Now and then a little quarrel would get up among these. But he gently lowered that winged stick and touched them, and peace was at once restored.
“The other birds, especially the cormorants, came alongside him, stood on his knees, on his shoulders and arms, and fed from his hands.
“Neighbour, it were a lovely sight.
“And he talked to them as he gently smoothed their bonnie heads with a little finger. I noticed it was always his little finger he used.
“Sometimes he bent down and kissed the bird nearest him on the poll.
“And more than that, neighbour, as he sat there feeding his pets, he sang sweet and low to them, a kind of unearthly chant, but mournful, and the birds seemed to like it, too.
“But the food was done at last, and the hermit slowly rose. Then away flew the flock. For a few minutes they circled and circled around the windmill, then directed their course seawards.
“I noticed a tear on the hermit’s cheek, but he dashed it off with his sleeve, as if ashamed of such weakness.
“‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘but I must now allay my feelings.’
“And down he sat to the piano, and such wild, rampant music I never heard before. Not all rampant though, for it got low and mournful at times, and so touching, that I felt cold all along my spine, neighbour, and had to bite my lips to keep back the tears.